The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller by JC Gatlin Page B

him. “Help will come. Don’t move
till it does.”
    She
lifted his shirt. Dried blood caked in the hair on his belly, but the cut
itself seemed to have clotted, or at least the bleeding had slowed. Next she
leaned him forward slightly against her and examined his back. It was red and
sticky. The entire back of his shirt was blood-soaked. She stretched his collar
to see his bare shoulder. That wound appeared deeper. Fresh blood spewed from
the cut. She leaned him carefully against the seat. He groaned.
    “I
think I’m going to pass out.” Owen put his head to the headrest.
    “Try
not to move,” she said, looking down the rest of his body. His left pant leg
was shredded, and the wound on his calf muscle was dark red and angry. She
reached down to touch his knee, and he jerked away from her. He groaned again.
She looked at his face. “Can you move your leg?”
    “I
hurt all over,” he said quietly, then paused. His left leg shook slightly,
causing him to groan once more. He shut his eyes. “I can move it a little.”
    She
noticed his guitar had been thrown from the backseat and was now angled on the
floorboard at his feet. She reached for it, wanted to move it out of the way,
but he stopped her.
    “Leave
it,” he said.
    “You
plan on playing it?” she asked.
    He
grimaced. “It’s okay. Just leave it.”
    “All
right,” she said, gingerly angling her body back onto the seat. “Hang on,
okay?”
    She
stared at him for several long seconds, studying his bloody stomach and
shoulder. She unbuttoned her shirt and slipped her arms out of the sleeves.
Taking it into her hands, she ripped it into two pieces. Turning to Owen, she
lifted his shirt again and wrapped one piece around his stomach and tightened
it. Owen groaned in pain and she retreated. When he looked calm, she positioned
the other piece of her shirt around his shoulder, mopping up the blood.
    “We
need to call for help,” she said, moving his torso in the seat.
    Looking
around the cab, she leaned down toward the floorboards, opened the center
console, and then checked the backseat.
    Owen
stirred and opened his eyes. “What are you doing?”
    “Looking
for my purse.” She flipped her upper body over the console, into the backseat,
and stretched her arms. The bent steering wheel dug into her thigh as she
stretched her body. She reached as far as she could, then snapped back into the
front seat with the brown “Fish Naked” T-shirt she’d worn yesterday and a pair
of sandals in her hand. “I can’t find my purse. It’s gone.”
    “You
said you hid it back at the boat ramp.”
    “My
cell phone was in it.” Rayanne sighed, slipping her arms into the T-shirt and
rolling it down over her head. Once she was in it, she held up the sandals and
struggled to maneuver around the bent steering wheel, toward her feet. She
slipped her left foot into one sandal as she spoke. “The kids … they took it.”
    “It
didn’t match your shoes, anyway.” Owen chuckled at that, and she took it as a
good sign.
    She
got the other sandal onto her right foot and sat back against the seat. She
looked at Owen.
    His
head wobbled on his shoulders and he slurred as he talked. “Your cell wouldn’t
get reception out here.”
    She
ignored him and searched the floorboard by his feet. “Where’s Darryl’s phone?
He said he left it in here. Where is it?”
    “Don’t
matter. No cell recep—” Owen coughed, unable to finish. He leaned forward,
coughing deeper until he cleared his throat, and leaned back. He looked over at
her. “Where’s the shotgun?”
    She
watched him a moment before answering. “It’s in the backseat.”
    “You
need to get it.” Owen shifted his torso so that he faced her. He coughed and
turned his head toward the backseat. “No one’s coming for us.”
    Rayanne
buried her face in her hands. She wanted to scream and to cry all at once, but
all she could do was breathe. So she took short, shallow breaths.
    “I
don’t know what to do,” she